


a crystals softened edge

by Aris



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 5.1 Spoilers, Angst, Character Study, Devotion, G'raha-centric, M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:14:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24788314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris/pseuds/Aris
Summary: G'raha longs for his old friend.(He knows, in his heart, that he would have waited forever. That he would have never stopped trying. That the world he knew could crumble to dust and ash, that beings could fade from existence, that customs and times could change and grow and become foreign in their idiosyncrasies - and that he would still hold on. Still believe.The warrior of light shall come. It shall all be made right.That G’raha, finally, can rest.)
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	a crystals softened edge

It had been hard enough, the first time.

Realisation had sunk in, as blood pressed to parched velvet, of what must be required. An ode to the greatest of his fore-bearers, if he allowed the necessity of it all to mature into a fanciful boast. In truth, there was no body of knowledge to be consulted, no experts to turn to, and no further time in which to do so - fractured as it was, Eorzea could not hold such power within its reach without its very shadow first falling upon it. That much has become abundant all too suddenly, wherein countless dooms were to be seen reflected in the eyes of those alike to Nero.

Only one avenue lay before him, one such success. The bitterness of an eternity was only that slightest bit saccharine in the embrace of slumber. Before, he had tried not to think of what he left, of what he had yet experienced. There is much reasoning he has wrestled with himself, a futile exercise, since. That he would not missed. That he would be forgotten. That _he_ would not miss, that _he_ would not forget - and yet, days after awakening, his minds eyes impressions of those he had treasured, now all but dust, sorely lacked.

He could put no name to the colours of eyes. To the twangs in certain words. What felt like hours stretched out in years he could never return to. A misplacement so deep it ached fiercely, quietly. Tenuous were his anchors to what was once his reality, and each reminder of time passed was a cold, skin deep horror he wanted nothing more to shy from. Hide from. It was poignant, unfathomable - uncontainable to words. What it is to lose a home, a people. To remember what others could not. To miss those others did not even think to do so.

A twisted thing. One could almost forgive the ascians the pain.

 _Remember.... remember, that we once lived_. 

He has this, at least -- however short-lived the memories of humanity, the Warrior of Light lay only a generation in the past, and thus the memories of his journey, and his companions, did persist.

To behold a stream before it becomes a great river. A lake unto a sea -- years had only deepened the deeds of the much gilded Warrior of Light. Empathetic, ferocious, some echo of god-hood in the stories they told of him, after the eighth. And before, although G’raha had paid little mind to such words then. How he had come to saviour them since, dried flowers between a books hard covers.

A young fool, is what he had once been. The excitement of a challenge and a cause worthy of dedication were all too thrilling, such so he endeavored to give the Warrior of Light little attention. There is a wisdom in skepticism, one he had tried his best to maintain despite every signal beckoning him into trust. It was easy, in the end, to give in as so many others had. To have beholden him is it meet eyes with the sun. A kindness so wholly undeserved was a force on its own; his bare-faced eagerness to help, without expectation of a return, of any kind of distinguishable acknowledgement. It had been baffling in such an age, a hero of paper and ink come to life.

It had been hard to see the person, under all that sheen and title - Fleance. For all those spoke of him, he spoke little himself. But there were moments, up turns of lips and lapses of attention, that hinted at a more intimate version of that which came forth.

He had longed, painfully so, to know that version.

In the end, all they had shared had amounted to little. Small conversations, lectures on Allagan history, all but captured moments between their small adventurers within the tower. He was ever-moving, disappearing for stretches of time immeasurable as G’raha remained buried amongst his pages.

And yet -

He could not shake it. Be it hero worship, be it as shallow as skin deep attraction, admiration, there was something there. Lingering glances after battles. The way their hands would brush over books, the distant contemplation given often to the side of his face while he pretended to be otherwise occupied. Not unlike a scholars fascination, G’raha could not help but look back, sometimes. To meet eyes in the glow of a campfire. To touch skin upon ancient stone.

Soft against hard, where his fur gave way to the callous of Fleances’ hand.

Yes - it had been hard enough, the first time. But it could have been harder. Well over 100 years had done nothing to dim this thrice-damned pining. To have _known_ , _acted_ \- 

He closes his eyes.

The second time, it should have been the last. 

Planned meticulously as one could a suicide of both time and speculation. Sacrifice is a kinder word, as it proffers a give and take. To align the value of his existence of a plane so thoroughly misplaced of his own, with the mere theory of opposing powers, light and dark, Hydaelyn and Zodiark... a miracle, perhaps useless in its manifestation. A life lived for so long should surely be a drop in the ocean compared to the loss of a hero. G’raha had lived his share and more - he had ever been ready to die for this cause.

He would hold these novel memories, the clearest he had beheld in the centuries, and would remember each detail. This time, he remembered the amber tone of his eyes. This time, the throaty drag of his voice was to be preserved alongside the sharp bite to his laugh, the rumble of a wry chuckle. He longs to reach out, to add the rough lines of scar tissue and muscle to his recollection, to rub at the callouses of an archers hand, to feel along the flesh of a hero who had lived - truly lived - as the exarch had never dared.

Freely. Wildly.

Equipped with fantasy, he had been at peace, of a sort, selfishly woven himself some lullaby to be hushed away into at Fleances’ side.

_I would ask him his next adventure...And if he should wish me to be a part of it, oh... how happy it would make me._

_... my heart swells simply to imagine it..._

But if were not to be. As a void beckoned forth his being, so too did primordial light, and where he reached for both he was rewarded none. Fleance contorted upon an altar, shining within his veins, while blood fell from betwit his crystalline fingers. He was powerless, far from the tower and injured beyond his expertise as the ascian made his intent known. There was pity to be had in the haughtiness of his tone, a kindred tiredness G’raha could read in the slow, nigh lackadaisical gestures of his hands. A man who had given over the very last of his waning hope.

A man who did not know of the voracity of his friends spirit.

Squirreled away among the wreckage of civilization given a feeble, humming light, G’raha had not lost belief. Emet-Selchs’ devoted, painful recreation of what he had once loved was a sad and sickly fate, one such he would wish upon no one. It was an ache to witness, one long buried and rotten, but one that could be denied. He felt it keenly upon his skin, in the humming of his crystalline shards. To wait, as long as he had... G’raha could not bear to entertain it. And yet each laid paving stone, each carefully remembered crevice of a building, a lamppost, a doorway... 

It begged the question on where sadness ended, and nostalgia began. When one had to give up. What one would do to avoid that, after so many years.

When would he have despaired, if Fleance had not come? Would the world have woven around him, as he remained unchanged? The streams of life untouched by his own palms, swirling in eddies and roaring upon rapids, detached from where he stood upon it - What bitterness could he have been home too, what hurt could he have fostered? 

(He knows, in his heart, that he would have waited forever. That he would have never stopped trying. That the world he knew could crumble to dust and ash, that beings would fade from existence, that customs and times could change and grow and become foreign in their idiosyncrasies - and that he would still hold on. Still believe.

The warrior of light shall come. It shall all be made right.

That G’raha, finally, can rest.)

Emet-Selch had doomed G’raha Tias’ timeline. He had destroyed numerous timelines, besides. Purposefully. Knowingly. With good intent, none the less, driven by a grief so deep, a desperation so fierce, it could not possibly be understood. A depthless, gaping, wound. One he could only know of the tiniest of scales, and yet felt unmeasured in his own echo -- he had not known a longing so deep. A grief so fierce, and to attempt to define it; impossible. G’raha nursed his own hurt, had moved a tower, torn a hole, ripped himself into a new shard. There were countless repercussions he could never have accounted for, may never know to account for.

For the greater good.

For the world.

For... Fleance.

He was a fool. And yet - his hero had never disappointed, for came forth he did. Tangled in Light’s embrace, hydaelyns' choke hold tight against his neck as he fought its influence tooth and claw. He had not the darkness within him to combat it, this G’raha knew, and his tears were as stark as the Empty. As stark as Emet-Selch’s pain, his twisted devotion. That too, could not be contained, could only rip at flesh and bone and transcend through the aether as if a knife through silk. Yet it was this pain, this shadow - this which Fleance could blot out, the sun eclipsing the moon, a leaking, poisonous radiance which stung to behold.

In his last moment, he was beautiful. 

Free, the aether of his loved ones gone from him.

“Remember...”

The second time, it should have been the last.

He should have died.

And now he has not.

Fleance stands amongst the scions. Dirty, bleeding, shaken. Much like G’raha himself. Yet he has achieved a deed so momentous G’raha can hardly believe it had happened before his eyes -- that after so many years of second hand tales and deeds, one has occurred within his grasp to witness. A world - no, a reality - saved. Bitterness turned sweet, death upon their tongues, a passing of such sadness. Such loss. It shook him deeply, and all he could feel has shame, relief, guilt. Something bone deep and lonesome.

For what the ascian had once had. For what he now, may lay down.

He had no plan for this, no structure of which to follow. Despite it all, he lives. He is able to have what he had never dared let himself believe -- that he may stand at Fleance’s side. That, what once his heart had swelled for, is open and true before him, split marrow before the starving scavenger. He is shaded nor hidden, standing in the light at last. 

The hood upon his shoulder is heavy, stained in his own blood.

G'raha stepped forward to join their circle, a faint whistling at his ear, a sickness at his stomach. Trepidation - but there is no need. Fleance meets his eyes - they are warm, bright, the amber he had dedicated so lovingly to his heart - and reaches forth a bloodied, trembling hand to lay at his neck. Warm, calloused, and the tears escape him at the mere thought of going a moment longer without this. Without him. There is no doubt -

Fleance _sees_ him. Right through him, and it is all he can do lift a crystalline hand to rest upon his heros’. The warrior of light smiles, sadly, happily, like he could not possibly believe what is before him. As if he felt this, this ripping, this stinging, an ache born of an eternity waiting, withering, longing -

As if he knew his heart.

“... t’is good to see you awake, G’raha Tia.”

(all this time?

_of course_ )

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is a piece I started while playing through ShB a while ago. It's a little old but I decided to finish it up. I really enjoy G'rahas' character and wish I could give it the depth I really feel for it, but sometimes I think words can't give it justice.
> 
> Please do leave a comment if you have any thoughts/feelings/screams, I really appreciate it.
> 
> You can share this on [tumblr](https://ariswrites.tumblr.com/post/621269019935244288/a-crystals-softened-edge-2k-words-mwolgraha) and [ twitter](https://twitter.com/insalte/status/1273614814179463169) if you're feeling generous, and if you're interested in seeing a lot more ffxiv writing feel free to join the [Bookclub discord](https://discord.gg/AbjXr6E), where all of us writers and readers gather.


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